


Come Back to Bed

by diemarysues



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Comfort, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 08:15:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diemarysues/pseuds/diemarysues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unable to sleep, Thorin wanders the halls of his forefathers, contemplating his past, present, and future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Back to Bed

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by the ever-lovely [suchanadorer](http://archiveofourown.org/users/suchanadorer/pseuds/suchanadorer). I do not own Middle-Earth, or its characters.

Much has changed since the desolation of Smaug and the Battle of Five Armies. Pure luck had saved the lives of Thorin and his kin – luck, and the unshakeable will of a stubborn Halfling.

 

It was this self-same Halfling that had then agreed (against all odds) to stay in Erebor by the King’s side, and Thorin thanks Mahal every day for every moment they are able to share.

 

Years have passed. Erebor is not yet returned to its full splendour, but it is no longer filled with the stench of death and decay. Many Dwarves from Ered Luin and the Iron Hills now reside within the mountain, stoking its furnaces and exploring its mines, delving deep and working towards restoring their ancient Kingdom.

 

It is Thorin’s kingdom, and even without all the progress he and his people have achieved, he would not be ashamed to call it his.

 

So why is he wakeful, roaming the halls like a restless spectre?

 

No one disturbs or even looks at him as they pass; their King is free to walk where he will, and they have no business with him that cannot wait for a more reasonable hour.

 

The throne room is completely restored, as are most of the higher levels. It looks exactly as it had when he’d been 24 – except for one detail.

 

Thorin traces the back of the throne where the Arkenstone had once been set. Despite its return, the King Under the Mountain had felt uneasy with the gem in his possession. While he’d been unable to deny its beauty, its allure, he’d also been unable to deny that its discovery just invited great sorrow – starting from Thror’s gold fever, to Thorin’s harsh, unthinking words to the Company’s burglar.

 

Again, it had been Bilbo who’d saved him. He had simply taken the Arkenstone from Thorin’s unresisting hands, put on his curious Ring, and disappeared.

 

He’d never told anyone what he’d done with the Arkenstone, and Thorin is grateful. For the most part. There are dark days with dark moods, and Thorin wonders and paces, seethes and rages. He always questions, after such times, whether he is following in his father’s and grandfather’s descent into madness – whether his line will ever be free of the doom the Valar had seen fit to bestow upon them.

 

It is with a weary sigh that Thorin sits upon his throne, arranging his coat about himself so he might be comfortable.

 

Bilbo teases him constantly about developing a flat bottom for all the sitting he has to do. Thorin will reply crossly that he is not an idle king, and that he is either in the mines or down by the practice halls or in the marketplace, always amongst his people. More often than not, Bilbo will laugh and kiss him; Thorin is starting to suspect that the Hobbit enjoys mocking him, if only to elicit a response.

 

He’s not sure what to do with the sudden surge of fondness this thought brings on, so he lets his mind wander on.

 

As is usual, it settles deep into his memories. He can remember the deep foreboding he and others had felt when they had heard the thunderous howling of the wind through their halls. He can recall the taste of dragonfire at the back of his throat when he’d gasped for air, the weight of his sword as he and the guard had made their stand. He can feel himself drowning in the relief of surviving and the pure _loss_ of being surrounded by the dead.

 

Thorin can remember, clear as day, staring into the golden eyes of the lizard, at the greed and the evil. He can remember pulling his grandfather from their people’s treasure. He can remember the fear and the death and the despair as Dwarves were forced to flee from their home.

 

He can remember the failure.

 

He can remember _his_ failure.

 

Soft fingers touch his chin and Thorin’s eyes snap open.

 

“What are you doing up here?” Bilbo asks, not pulling his hand back despite having to stand on tiptoes and leaning forward with a palm braced on the throne – a most uncomfortable position, to be sure.

 

“I thought you were abed.” Thorin takes Bilbo’s fingers and presses them to his lips. He takes in the Hobbit in naught but his nightshirt and robe and perpetually bare feet, and marvels at how _right_ it is to have Bilbo here in his mountain (despite how odd he may look amongst Dwarves).

 

“I was, and then I turned around to find myself alone, rather.” He frowns. “Is this a habit of yours, brooding?”

 

As this is a familiar insult, Thorin takes no offense. Well. Not _much_.

 

“I merely needed a quiet place to think,” he explains.

 

“Our bed is quiet enough,” Bilbo says. He pauses for a beat, considering. “Admittedly, only when we want it to be.”

 

At this Thorin’s blood grows hot, not so much at the words Bilbo had uttered, but the nonchalant way he’d done so.

 

“Are you done with your thoughts, then? I would rest easier with you at my back, and away from this cold.” He wobbles for a moment and then drops abruptly back on his heels, his fingers slipping from Thorin’s grip. Scowling, Bilbo grumbles, “At least the bed is more Hobbit-friendly than this throne of yours.”

 

Thorin chuckles. “I am remiss in my duties. Come. Sit with me.”

 

“I am not going to sit upon your knee like a child,” Bilbo says crossly.

 

“Oh? You seemed amenable this morning.” A vision of a gloriously naked Hobbit astride his hips graces his mind, and Thorin’s throat clicks as he swallows. “ _Very_ amenable.”

 

The tips of Bilbo’s ears turn pink and he looks very flustered. “We are not doing that in here,” he says firmly.

 

Even if a fizzle of interest sinks into his bones at the idea, Thorin dismisses it. He will not despoil the halls of his forefathers for a simple indulgence. He will not take Bilbo anywhere but in utter privacy.

 

He will not share his Hobbit.

 

“Very well,” Thorin says, making sure to sound as long-suffering as he possibly can. He ignores the glare that is levelled at him, impressive as it may be, and instead rises to his feet. “I live to serve.”

 

This provokes an unbidden snort. “Of course you do.”

 

Thorin raises an eyebrow and places a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder so he stops walking. “I do,” he says softly, removing the fur collar of his coat and wrapping it around the Hobbit’s shoulders to stop his shivering.

 

Bilbo’s reply is to smile softly, and to pull Thorin down for a chaste kiss.

 

There is something in the way that he twists his hands in Thorin’s tunic that makes the King frown. “Is something troubling you?”

 

Large, blue eyes blink up at him. “No.”

 

“…I do not believe you.”

 

His Hobbit shrugs. “That’s your business.”

 

“Bilbo…”

 

He shakes his head. “It’s nothing.”

 

Thorin sighs. “Do not test my patience, dear one.”

 

Bilbo’s lips curl upwards. “Only you can make threats and bestow me with endearments with the same breath.”

 

Thorin doesn’t deign to dignify that with an answer. Rather, he crosses his arms and levels a severe eyebrow at Bilbo, who exhales with a gusty sigh.

 

“I wish to return to the Shire. To Bag End.”

 

Thorin instantly regrets sacrificing his fur collar; icy coldness grips him from within, stilling his heart in his chest. He honestly had not expected such a blithe declaration – certainly, in his darkest nightmares, he would be plagued by visions of Bilbo (rightly) spurning his love, and –

 

“Thorin?”

 

Rather wisely, the King does not continue with his line of thought and instead tentatively asks, “To visit?”

 

Looking somewhat exasperated and very fond, Bilbo says, “Yes,” as if he thinks Thorin is being an utter idiot. And perhaps he is. Not that he would ever admit such a thing.

 

No, Thorin just frowns mightily. “I am not your keeper. You do not need my permission to go where you please.”

 

“That does not mean I don’t want it. You know that.”

 

At this, Thorin settles a little. “I know you have your heart set.” Otherwise he would have never asked in the first place. His hand finds the generous curve of Bilbo’s cheek. “I only ask that you return to me quickly.”

 

Instead of the expected smile (for Bilbo no longer blushes at such sweet nothings – or, not _often_ ), the Hobbit’s face takes on an expression of hesitation before it hardens into determination. “You could come with me.”

 

Thorin entertains the notion for all of three seconds. Three seconds, and his practical side snaps him to reality. “I cannot.”

 

“I think Fíli and Kíli will do well in your absence, brief though it’ll be.”

 

“They are not yet past their first century, and you would have them rule in my stead?”

 

“With their years combined, they almost equal you in age.” At the lack of a laugh – or even a smile, really – Bilbo sighs a little. “They will not be alone; your best advisor is not cowed by either of them.”

 

“She is their mother. And quite terrifying.”

 

“Shame on you, Thorin Oakenshield – speaking ill of your own kin!”

 

Amusement glittering in his eyes, Thorin presses his lips to the backs of Bilbo’s fingers in a wordless apology.

 

“You must give them a chance, Thorin. One day they will be Kings after you; you cannot coddle them forever.”

 

Thorin snorts softly. No one had ever accused him of coddling anyone, much less his sister-sons.

 

Even Bilbo is smiling wryly. “I am not forcing you to do anything. Just… consider it.”

 

They are silent for a moment, unmoving, before Thorin shakes his head. “Very well. I will go.”

 

Bilbo bounces on his toes, once, smile splitting his face. “You will?”

 

“You are perfectly aware that I find it difficult to deny you anything,” Thorin grumbles.

 

“And yet I clearly remember a stubborn oaf of a Dwarf threatening to throw me off this very same mountain.”

 

Thorin ducks his head, scowling. “Hardly my best moment.”

 

Cool fingers cup his cheek. “And you’ve made up for it thousandfold. Especially since you’ve agreed to accompany me to the Shire. I’d hoped, but…”

 

“Hush. It’s done. We shall make plans on the morrow.” He kisses the palm of Bilbo’s hand. “For now, I should return you to bed.”

 

“I wouldn’t have left if you’d stayed put.”

 

Thorin’s hand is large and warm at the small of Bilbo’s back as he leads them to their shared quarters. He decides to change the subject. “I would like for you to walk in Ered Luin. It is not my home, but I ruled there for a time.”

 

“I am well aware of that, my King,” Bilbo returns, a little tetchy. And then, “Are there many Dwarves left in the Blue Mountains?”

 

“There are some.”

 

“And do they favour the same architecture?”

 

Thorin frowns. “What’s wrong with our architecture?”

 

“Nothing is wrong with it… I just… I am not overly fond of heights, as you well know… and these walkways could stand to be a little wider.” Likely embarrassed, Bilbo huffs when Thorin lets out a bark of laughter.

 

“I can promise you that you will be safe with me by your side.”

 

And when Bilbo smiles at him, Thorin swears that he sees the light of the Arkenstone in his face.

 

Much has changed since the desolation of Smaug and the Battle of Five Armies. As he blows out the candle and curls himself around Bilbo, Thorin thinks that the best is that he loves, and is loved in return.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't usually write such fluffy fic. Go figure.


End file.
